


sweven

by kousanoes



Category: One Piece
Genre: 4 + 1 in the barest sense, Gen, POV Second Person, Pre-Time Skip, Temporary Character Death, Thriller Bark, mostly anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kousanoes/pseuds/kousanoes
Summary: You wake screaming.You pass out shortly after.
Relationships: Nico Robin & Roronoa Zoro, Roronoa Zoro & Tony Tony Chopper
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	sweven

**Author's Note:**

> _shrugs_ i haven't actually seen/read the entirety of one piece nor the majority of the thriller bark arc where this was supposed to take place (after zoro does that 'take luffy's pain' thing from kuma), so. heads up. i took my liberties. either way, you could probably apply this to any scene where zoro almost dies lmfao
> 
> inspiration from this [tumblr post](https://hgk477.tumblr.com/post/186538355044/nine-things-about-being-brought-back-from-the-dead). title from this [ other](https://shannaraisles.tumblr.com/post/178246864645/writing-challenge-prompt-list) tumblr post. spent the entire time writing this listening to faouzia's _tears of gold_ so yall should check that out :eyes:

You wake screaming. 

You don’t notice until you open your eyes—shakily, broken, weak most of all—and feel the hoarseness of your throat. It is dry. You are cold, most of all. 

Unwillingly, your body shakes, down to its last bones. The undersides of your chest, just outside your ribs, tremble in a last-ditch effort to keep warm. Everything else is scared stiff, as if you stood tense for hours on end, unable to move. Maybe you did. You can’t remember anything, save for vague memories and scenes that float themselves through the forefront of your brain. 

Slowly but surely, you come to your senses. Excruciating pain ripples across your head, your chest, your abdomen, your legs. A stabbing spasm shoots its way through your toe and up your foot. You try to move your neck—to look around, see where you are—but you cannot move. Your muscles, for once, refuse to listen. 

Slowly but surely, your external senses return as well. The blurry vision of the walls focuses itself, losing some of its blinding brightness. A soft hum you immediately recognize as the sound of your ship is the first to come back, soon accompanied by soft sobbing. 

A brown, furry, blob pokes the tip of its head into the corner of your vision, and you barely register the faint, “He’s _alive_!” 

If you could snort, you would. Of course you’re alive; you can’t die. 

You pass out shortly after. 

* * *

You wake screaming. 

This time, you notice quicker. Your vocal cords constrict and halt the action in its tracks. Your teeth are chattering. You are cold. 

“Zoro—” Chopper is saying, voice faint and far away. He can’t be far from you, unless someone else is hurt. Is someone else hurt? You had one job, Zoro.

Your stomach lurches as you shoot up in bed—or try to, at least. You’re not sure you make it more than a millimeter off the bed. 

The hacking commences. A bitter taste works its way up your throat, and you

can’t

breathe.

You pass out shortly after. 

* * *

You wake screaming. 

Swallow, Zoro. Swallow, for your throat is dry. Your entire body aches—has there been an improvement since last time? You’re not sure. Everything hurts, and it’s not all physical. 

There is something missing in your chest, you think, amongst all the cold and throbbing. A key memory, or a feeling, or a thought. Something you cannot remember. It does not matter now, of course; what good are you without a functional body? 

There is faint chattering to your left—you think it’s your left, anyway—and only then do you manage to open your mouth. 

“Water,” you croak out, followed by a mumbled, “’m cold.” 

You pass out shortly after. 

* * *

You wake screaming. 

Of course you do. A ravenous itch covers your body, creeping its way under your skin. Keenly, you feel a needle pricked into your skin, digging deeper and deeper until you feel it dissolve into your blood and bones. 

How hideous do you look, right now? You were never one for appearances, to be honest, but you cannot imagine facing your crew—your family—in such a pitiful state. Weren’t you supposed to be their swordsman? You have your pride, and this is not one of it. 

You shouldn’t be like this. 

Chopper, the faithful doctor he is, offers you some water. You take it, hands shaking, and notice the faint white lines around your body. There is a thick weight on top of you—a blanket, as per previously requested. 

This only serves to grow the lumping guilt in your heart. 

“I wasn’t sure how much to give you,” he says, but you hardly pay him mind. All effort goes to keeping the small cup still and bringing it to your lips. 

You could ask for help, you’re sure; anybody would be willing to offer aid in this situation, whatever it is. You can’t, though. 

One sip. Two. That’s enough for now; the nausea returns and you have to shove the cup back at Chopper. You still can’t even look him in the eye, right now. 

You pass out shortly after. 

* * *

You wake screaming. 

Or maybe you don’t; it all feels surreal, anyhow. Time is fluid since you’ve drifted in and out of consciousness. On a good day, scenery coalesces and plays you like a fiddle. On bad days—today is one of them—you’re not sure you could even find your quarters. 

“Can you sit up?” Chopper asks, one hoof on your arm. He is cold, you think, or maybe you’re cold. You nod, and he assists you through the motion, until your back is resting against the hardboard behind you. 

“Take your time,” he says. You don’t need to be told twice. 

With harrowing patience, you turn your head, surveying your surroundings. Your sense of direction is still gone, forlorn, but you manage to turn your head far enough to see Nico Robin sitting in the visitor’s chair. Chopper is almost directly across from her, and the door faces you. Direction with relation to other objects seems OK today. 

“You died,” her soft voice says from the side, once you’ve finished calibrating. “Or almost did, anyway.” 

One leg crossed on top of the other, Robin holds herself in a way that would make you assume indifference. You would have, in fact, if it weren’t for the lack of items in her hands. They are tightly interlaced; you can see the stress in her knuckles. 

“I died,” you say, tasting the words in your mouth. They sound—well, not true, not but not false either. “What—what happened?” 

Robin’s eyes widen, but she masks the surprise well. 

“You don’t—remember?” Chopper asks.

“Yeah.” 

“I don’t know,” Chopper admits. “We found you, standing and covered in—” 

“Chopper,” Robin says, quiet but firm. A serious expression crosses her face; her brows furrow as she stares him down. “I don’t think we should tell him—now, anyway.” The last part seems more directed to you than him. 

You can’t keep turning your head to look back and forth between them, so you decide to keep watching Robin. She seems to know more, anyway. 

“What happened?” you repeat. 

“Your heart stopped and everything. Your vitals… all stopped,” she says, by way of explanation. It doesn’t explain anything, and your frustration must show on your face as she continues, haltingly, “Brook and I have only heard of a single situation like this before.” 

You grunt. 

Her eyes flicker to Chopper, then says, evenly, “You should have died. And I’m not supposed to tell you anything about it, but you were ready to, too.” 

She shifts. Her words are stark against your skin. Let it be said: you are not afraid of death, nor are you of dying at an opponent’s blade, but nothing you have lived so far has felt so chilling. The thought of dying—losing your dream, losing Kuina’s—is a silver-coated cut against your very soul. You’ve had close incidents before, but never once where you couldn’t remember. 

Finally, she says, “You were lucky, Zoro. Don’t push it past that; every other patient who’s lived this hasn’t ended well if they asked—Brook knows this firsthand—and this isn’t a risk we’re willing to take. Why don’t I let the others know you’re up to talk? They’d be ecstatic to see you.” 


End file.
